Sunday 12.01am: Right. This is it. The end of a beautiful relationship with cigarettes. It's over. Finished. We mean nothing to each other any more. Have just smoked self silly while watching gangster-coming-off-heroin film, Gridlock'd and now am going to sleep. First thing tomorrow morning am taking the remaining cigarettes from duty free stash out into street and will give them to first smoker I see. Just one last, lovely fag - a smooth and sultry Marlboro Light - for old times' sake.

12.02am: Notorious gangster rapper Tupac Shakur bursts into bedroom. "Right, listen here, motherfucker," he says. "You're going to kick. And you can't kick alone. So we're going out on the streets and we're going to kick together. Right?" About to ask him how he got into flat, especially when he was reported dead in Las Vegas shoot-out in September, but decide wiser not to argue with 7ft gangster.

12.04am: "Right!" barks Tupac. "How many cigarettes you got in your pockets, motherfucker?" Shake head and do empty-pockets gesture, knowing full well there are three emergency B&H in a ten pack in my jacket pocket.

12.05am: WHAM! Am slammed up against Tupac's BMW as he fishes inside pockets to produce offending tobacco. "Goddam junkie!" he shrieks, grinding them into the pavement with a massive Nike trainer. He shoves me into passenger seat of his BMW, then produces the leftover duty frees. "Next person comes along, you hand them them over," he says. I gulp. "What if they're a small child?" I ask, reasonably. Tupac looks stern. "Okay, if they're under 16, don't hand them over." Try to give fags to poor cyclist who looks like has just been handed a kilo of heroin. "Er, I don't smoke," he says, sheepishly. Tupac glares at him. "Dammit, we're gonna kick this shit," he says.

1.30am: BMW takes off at high speed as night starts to take even more surreal spin. "Erm, I take it I've been kidnapped," I say. Tupac explains we're going to the hospital. Wonder if this is because I'm about to be sustain an injury in South London drugs-related shoot-out.

1.50am Stop off at v posh house in surburbia. "Okay, motherfucker," says Tupac. "Go and knock the door and say you need help." It seems house belongs to Dr Alan Carr, the world's biggest kicking-smoking expert. Ring bell reluctantly and small man in dressing gown comes to door with baseball bat. "I'd like very much to give up smoking," I tell him. Dr Carr, obviously used to this sort of thing, shakes his head, sadly. "You'll have to make an appointment," he says. "How does 4 November 1999 sound?"

3.20am Burst through doors of Queen's College Hospital, ignoring shouts of "visiting hours are over," from sleepy orderlies. In the lift, through several wards of moaning sick people, trying to keep up with five-foot long legs of Tupac, then into Cancer Ward. Tupac wakes up groaning patient who looks like he thinks he's at last meeting his maker. "Lung cancer?" barks Tupac. "No, prostate," says Patient. "Sorry to bother you, sir," says Tupac. After waking up entire ward, find lung cancer patient looking suitably poorly. "Smoker?" asks Tupac. Lung patient shakes head. "Never smoked a cigarette in my whole life." "Shit!" says Tupac. Hospital staff now muttering "Security!" into intercoms as Tupac demands to be shown a diseased lung. Escape via goods lift into bowels of hospital. By this time, have realised am dreaming, so feeling generally less stressed about the whole thing. "Listen, Tupac," I say, "I appreciate that you're doing, trying to get me to kick cigarettes and everything, but I swear I fully intend to give up smoking - using a more conventional method - first thing tomorrow morning." At this point, the cops tell us to come out with our hands up...

Sunday 12.15pm: Wake up sweating in nice, comfortable bed at home. Door bursts open to reveal flatmate, Tinky Winky. "Got any of those duty free left?" he mumbles. But I just can't find them. "Sorry," I tell him. "I don't smoke."